She tried to think of some altered state of affairs in which these monstrous limitations would be alleviated, in which women would stand on their own feet in equal citizenship with men.  For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order.  At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.  She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations.

“It is true.  It is no good waiving the thing; it is true.  Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs....  Why shouldn’t we be martyrs?  There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.  It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own....”

She repeated, as if she answered an objector:  “A sort of blacklegging.

“A sex of blacklegging clients.”

Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood.

“Poor little Miniver!  What can she be but what she is?...  Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right.”

That phrase about dragging the truth through swamps of nonsense she remembered from Capes.  At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths.  She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life.

She let her mind run into dreams of that cloud paradise of an altered world in which the Goopes and Minivers, the Fabians and reforming people believed.  Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood.”  Suppose in some complex yet conceivable way women were endowed, were no longer economically and socially dependent on men.  “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him....  This vile hovering to catch a man’s eye!...  One could go to him and tell him one loved him.  I want to love him.  A little love from him would be enough.  It would hurt no one.  It would not burden him with any obligation.”

She groaned aloud and bowed her forehead to her knees.  She floundered deep.  She wanted to kiss his feet.  His feet would have the firm texture of his hands.

Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt.  “I will not have this slavery,” she said.  “I will not have this slavery.”

She shook her fist ceilingward.  “Do you hear!” she said “whatever you are, wherever you are!  I will not be slave to the thought of any man, slave to the customs of any time.  Confound this slavery of sex!  I am a man!  I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!”